


alive, alive

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Getting Together, Johncroft, M/M, Season 1, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21604831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: “Don’t listen to him,” John murmurs, after Sherlock has calculated, out loud, the exact trajectory of Mycroft’s eight pound weight gain over the last six months.  “He can’t help but lash out when he feels like he’s not the most attractive person in the room.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 353





	alive, alive

“Don’t listen to him,” John murmurs, after Sherlock has calculated, out loud, the exact trajectory of Mycroft’s eight pound weight gain over the last six months. “He can’t help but lash out when he feels like he’s not the most attractive person in the room.”

Mycroft blinks, stares. He bites his lip; grips his umbrella to stop his hands trembling. _Hands trembling_ , as if mockery from this new quarter should carry enough weight to penetrate his careful air of indifference; as if he deigns to care what Sherlock’s new _sidekick_ thinks of him. As if John Watson’s opinion means anything.

“Attraction is subjective,” Sherlock says from his seat at the table. “Boring.” He pauses, looks thoughtful. “Even still, I _am_ the most attractive person in the room.”

John elbows Mycroft in the ribs, lightly; grinning at him as if they’re both in on some joke. His face falls when he catches Mycroft’s eye. “Oh. Mycroft. You do know, of course, Sherlock is just… your body, it’s--”

“I’m well aware, Doctor Watson, thank you.” To Sherlock, he says, smirking, “I had the stomach flu in March.” 

“Stomach flu,” moans Sherlock, as Mycroft opens the door to leave. “There’s always something.”

Mycroft strolls away nonchalantly enough, but the case files are still in his hand, forgotten, along with any desire for Sherlock’s insight. The spot where John touched him hurts like a bruise. Burns like a brand.

…

Mycroft Holmes can count on one hand the number of people who speak to him freely. Even fewer dare touch him without express permission. After all, caring is no advantage. Affection is weakness. Loneliness is pointless, forbidden. 

He holds himself above. Exclusive. Unreachable.

John Watson claps a hand on his shoulder when he sees him. “Mycroft! You’re looking well.”

“Quite,” Mycroft says dryly; he is prepared, at least, this time.

John sighs. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I look nice too.”

Mycroft glances John over. He doesn’t look nice at all, awful in fact; tired, bloodshot eyes, days old yellow bruise covering his cheek. Striped jumper, fluffy like a cloud. Dark slippers, messy hair. Fingers wrapped around his dainty teacup. “You look soft,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock would have taken the insult, run away with it, had five quips ready before Mycroft had taken a breath, but John smiles. Beams, really. “And you always look so sharp! Quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“That’ll be enough of that,” Mycroft spits. A mistake. Dead giveaway, obvious, _why don’t I just strip naked and mark up all my vulnerabilities, expose every weakness for you to exploit as you see fit_?

“Of what?” John asks, as if genuinely puzzled, as if he doesn’t know exactly where he’s jabbing Mycroft with a pin.

“Remarkable,” Mycroft says, and John clocks his intent this time, steps closer, head cocked to one side.

“You’ve said, before.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock says you’re the most dangerous man I’ll ever meet.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says again. “Yes.”

John takes one step back, white teeth biting red lip. “Would you like tea?”

“What?”

“Tea. Can I get you some?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, blankly. “Thank you.”

John brings him tea, sweet, how he likes it, and Mycroft closes his eyes to drink it, to take himself away for a moment. When he opens them again, John is staring at him, eyes crinkled and kind. Soft. Soft.

Later, Mycroft gets a text.

_What did you say to my blogger? He thinks you have self-esteem issues. SH_

_Ridiculous. MH_

_Indeed. A fabled all-powerful god couldn’t have higher esteem for himself than you. SH_

_Why were you here, anyway? SH_

It’s only then that Mycroft realizes he’d hadn’t had a reason to be there. That he dropped by, unannounced, for no particular reason at all. 

He doesn’t respond.

…

Mycroft watches John get dumped by his girlfriend, first through the CCTV cameras, then in person, through the dark window of his car. The woman (Rose G., 32, librarian, former smoker) is rueful, disappointed but mildly amused, and John claps a hand over his heart with good humour just before she walks away. 

John’s expression dips into a frown when he spots the car; he stalks over and wrenches the door open, slides inside. “Oh,” he says, frown melting into something more neutral. “I thought you’d be--” he mimes texting, “Your girl, the pretty one.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Do I look disappointed?”

He doesn’t. “Less than I expected, considering your romantic woes.” Mycroft gestures out the window. The scene of the break up.

“Hmm. I guess I wasn’t Mr. Right.”

“Not this time,” agrees Mycroft. He waits for John to ask him why he’s here. Has an excuse on his tongue, practiced, at the ready.

“Ice cream,” John says.

“What?”

“Ice cream, people eat ice cream after relationships end.”

“Do they.” He hasn’t, personally. After all, he hasn’t had a relationship last longer than one night in… how many years? Twenty?

“Yes,” John says firmly. “So let’s.”

“Let’s?”

“Get ice cream,” John says, long-suffering, smiling.

Ah. “I can’t.”

“Of course,” John says. No more smile. “I understand.”

No, it’s. I have to be at the airport.” He checks his watch. “Twelve minutes ago.”

“And they’re holding the plane for you, I suppose?”

They are. Mycroft says nothing.

“Of course they are,” John says.

“Are you all right? You liked her.”

John looks at Mycroft carefully, shifts a bit closer, whispers, “If I touch you, will I be shot?”

“Not ever,” Mycroft says, too loud in the silence of the car, before he can think it through, before he can manage something careful.

John wraps his arms around Mycroft, a gentle hug, timid despite the reassurance. “Thank you,” he says.

“Of course. Of course.”

From the plane, he has several pints of ice cream and bottle of whiskey sent to 221B. Adds a note that says _Feel better, MH_. Edits it down to initials only. Shakes his head, sends it all along with no note at all.

…

John texts from Sherlock’s phone. _Come to the clinic for lunch one day this week_. Then: _Sherlock wouldn’t give me your number, apologies if this is a decoy contact_.

It could just as likely be Sherlock himself, testing him, trying to see if he’ll make a fool of himself. He won’t go. Pointless.

He makes it _one day_ before giving in. Reschedules three different meetings and one conference call. Shows up at the clinic empty-handed, wondering if he was supposed to bring food.

“Mycroft!” John exclaims, grinning broadly. “Give me one minute here, just finishing up!”

He waits outside, awkward in bright sunlight, _awkward_ , what is happening to him? He shifts his stance, adjusts his posture. Pastes a confident smile on his face. Feels more like himself, feels normal.

John collects him with a smile, tugs him by hand to a nearby bakery, sighs out loud when he recognizes Sherlock there ahead of them. His shoulders droop. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock asks coolly.

“It’s called _lunch_ , Sherlock,” John says. “It’s very common.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft. “A moment with my brother, if you please?”

John (bless him) discreetly exits and Mycroft sits next to Sherlock, who is staring at the ceiling, stone-faced.

“My flatmate,” Sherlock says.

“Yes.”

“I despise you.”

“If this is a risk to your… _health_ , I will, of course, cease all contact.”

Sherlock twists around, examines Mycroft’s face with narrowed eyes. “You’re a despicable human being.” He sighs, pulls out his phone. Starts typing furiously. “I don’t think of you. I never think of you. But if I were _forced_ to think about you, as a brother and as a person, I would say that, considering all the alternatives, I prefer you to be… happy.” He stands, grimacing, and John approaches. “You will not interfere with our work,” he says to Mycroft, low and commanding, before whispering something to John and storming out the door.

John takes Sherlock’s seat, looking a little red-faced. “Look, whatever he said, he just likes to embarrass me in front of-- well--”

“He said nothing to embarrass you, I assure you.”

“A first time for everything, then.” But he smiles easier, after that; seems to shrug Sherlock’s interruption away. An enviable talent. “Tell me about your work,” he says. “Something you can tell.”

Mycroft considers, then launches into a description of an incident from the week before: finding his assistant and the young man from the coffee stand mid-coitus in the copy room.

John laughs until he can hardly breathe, head resting on the table, shoulders shaking. “What did you do after?”

“I congratulated her, of course,” Mycroft says. “He was very fit.”

John laughs again, reaches across the table to rest his hand over Mycroft’s. “Very fit, huh? I’m lucky she has dibs.”

Mycroft pointedly examines John from across the table, eyebrow arched. Takes in his steady gaze, tousled hair, smile, hands, fingers. There’s no contest, no luck involved.

John shoots up. “Damn! I forgot lunch. One sec!” He makes a dash to the counter, where he greets the employees as old friends, and returns with a wrapped sandwich and container of soup, which he sets in front of Mycroft. “It’ll have to be to go, Sarah’ll actually kill me this time if I’m late.” He hesitates. “Thank you. For coming. I know you’re… well, busy. Thank you.”

Later, Mycroft texts John from his personal cell phone. _Now you have my number. MH_

…

Mycroft undresses late at night, in a hotel room in Tokyo, unpleasantly drunk. Strips naked, down to nothing. Stands in front of a large mirror. Imagines melting. Imagines withering away. 

Tries to imagine looking up at someone he knows well, respects, like this: body bare, eyes open. Without the haze of alcohol to soften his flaws, blur his lines. Tries to imagine putting that someone at risk, the risk that surrounds Mycroft like a fog, infecting anyone who dares come close.

Can’t.

…

Mycroft watches John stagger from the bar, arm around a man, laughing. His _friend_ elbows him in the waist, and John doubles over, falls to his hands and knees; Mycroft is out of the car before he can think, before he realizes John is still laughing. His security team will have his head for this recklessness.

“Mycroft,” John says, tries to steady himself but stumbles the few steps between them. Lands, laughing, one arm around Mycroft’s neck and one hand clutching his shirtsleeve. “Sorry, sorry.”

“John!” calls the man, but John waves him away. Pushes Mycroft back inside the car.

John curls up, small, against Mycroft. “You just missed Sherlock,” he says, sleepy, words bordering on slurred. “He solved it.”

“Your date was a case?”

John goes from relaxed to unbearably tense in a heartbeat. Mycroft feels him breathing in and out, deep, once, twice, three times. “Wasn’t a date,” he says. “Stag party. Bit impromptu.” He shrugs. “His future father-in-law was gonna kill him. I think.”

“I see.”

John pushes himself away, situates himself apart from Mycroft, military-straight spine, steady gaze, neutral expression. “Would you have said yes? If I asked you to come with?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, continues, sounding angry. “You had to know that wasn’t a date. He was wearing a sash that said ‘Groom To Be’ and a paper crown. You’re a Holmes. These aren’t details you’d miss.”

Mycroft shuts his eyes. Reviews the memory. A bright orange sash; how humiliating. His face burns; he’s sure he’s gone red as a tomato. “Perhaps I’m not at my best. Caring is not--”

“So you do care?”

“Have you so little self-preservation?”

“Yes! You already knew that, and it’s nothing to do with you. That’s not what this is about!” John sighs, slumps back against the seat. “I can make my own choices, Mycroft. And it wouldn’t kill you to have something nice in your life.”

“And you’re the nice thing?”

“I could be.”

Mycroft stares out the window. Can’t bear eye contact. “I’ll have to up your security.”

John scoots closer, they’re touching again, finally, _finally_. “Do you want this?”

Mycroft doesn’t know if he means the touch, or a relationship, or John himself. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

…

“You haven’t kissed me,” Mycroft says, over tea at 221B.

John looks amused. “You haven’t kissed me, either.”

“You prefer to be the aggressor in these situations. Obviously.”

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Regardless, I was under the impression you wanted to take this slow.”

“Why is that?”

John hesitates. 

“Ah,” Mycroft says, heart pounding. “You don’t want to kiss me.”

“Oh, Mycroft. Not that. Never that.” John stands, moves the few steps across the table to rest his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Sometimes you flinch when I touch you. I don’t want to push.”

Mycroft lifts his head. Drums his fingers on John’s hip. Stares.

“Do you want?” John asks.

“I want,” Mycroft says. Watches as John stoops low. Closes his eyes when John’s lips brush his cheek. His mouth.

“Okay?” John asks.

“One look,” Mycroft says. “One look, and they’ll all know.”

“Know what?”

“Know I’ll trade anything I have for your life.”

John laughs, shaky. “You know I can take care of myself.”

“John,” Mycroft says, tips his head back. Gasps when John’s teeth graze his neck. “ _John_.”

…

James Moriarty straps a bomb to John. Holds a gun on Sherlock. Threatens them with intent. Threatens what’s his.

James Moriarty dies later that week. Slip and fall. Tragic accident.

“ _Mycroft_ ,” scolds Sherlock. “I wasn’t done with him yet!”

John has one hand on the small of Mycroft’s back. He’s trembling.

“Would you like me to leave?” Mycroft asks softly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock says, but John shakes his head, guides Mycroft to his bedroom. Shoves him down on the bed.

“John,” Mycroft says. _This is it_ , he thinks.

But John crawls into bed with him fully clothed. Buries one hand in Mycroft’s hair. Rests the other over his soft waist. “Mycroft,” he says.

“I wondered,” Mycroft says. “I wonder if you’ve mistaken me for a kind man. I wonder--”

“I know who you are,” John says. “I see you. I see you.”

And he sees John. Still trembling. Shadow under his eyes from another nightmare, too little sleep. A little too thin; caught up in Sherlock’s eating habits. Sharp grip, soft expression.

“I’m going to keep you,” John says, low, like he’s still unsure; words more confident than tone.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Yes.”


End file.
